


pretty please.

by thepapernautilus



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Anonymous Sex, Biting, F/M, Jealousy, Marking, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Possessive Sex, Specific Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:20:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28202238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepapernautilus/pseuds/thepapernautilus
Summary: Deep in her heart, Zahra found she wanted someone to know.To recognize that which happened.To feel a flame of jealousy at someone claiming her.Specifically…… She wanted the Crystal Exarch to see.Granson leaves a lovebite on Zahra, and the Crystal Exarch sees it. So, Zahra dares him to do something about it.
Relationships: G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light, Granson/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 100
Collections: Final Fantasy XIV - Crystal Exarch x WoL Recommendations





	pretty please.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [asamino](https://archiveofourown.org/users/asamino/gifts).



Zahra felt pulled in so many directions.

She was a doll tugged between grabbing, desperate hands. In firm gloved hands were Emet-Selch’s, with a knowing smile haunting all of her darkest dreams. He was a penumbral shade in the corner of her eye, beckoning and infernal.

And in another, insistent and demanding, were that of the Scions. Concern and obligation woven into one another, inextricable bonds rendered impermeable by battle and strife.

But the one she found herself surrendering to was a strong, gentle tug.

That of Granson’s.

During their stints searching for Dikaiosyne they found themselves sharing a tent, and wordlessly, quietly, silently, falling into one another’s arms. Just as Zahra and Granson were accustomed to using one another’s bodies to accomplish that which needed to be done, so too did they hone them in the quiet comfort of Granson’s bedroll. They were vigorous, wordless sessions, dedicated to the simple art of bringing one another a moment of respite in the hellscape that was the First. During their most recent stint in Il Mheg, Zahra found an angry, reddened lovemark marring the pallor of her neck. Perfectly oppositional to the years-old scar on her right.

Zahra tugged her ribbon over it, pulled her collar higher with a huff. When she confronted Granson on it, he merely fitted her with a crooked smile.

“You’re getting beat up all the time anyway,” he grinned. “No one will suspect a thing.”

And Granson was correct; and even if someone did suspect _what_ that mark was, no one would be fool enough to ask the Warrior of Darkness _directly_ about it. Save perhaps Alisaie.

But…

Deep in her heart, Zahra found she _wanted_ someone to know.

To recognize that which happened.

To feel a flame of jealousy at someone claiming her.

Specifically…

… She wanted the Crystal Exarch to see.

What would he think, if he saw the lovebite? What would he say? Would his fist clutch tighter around his staff, his shoulders straightening a little sterner, a little broader? Or would he crumble at the sight of it, cowardly and cowling?

Or…

… would he even care at all?

When she returned from dunes of Amh Araeng, Storge and their myriad wings put to the sword, the Scions pleaded with her to _rest._ And while she was minded to do so, she found herself quickly idling in the small confines of her quarters with only Ardbert to comfort her. He gave her a wry look at her complaints—he knew as well as anyone of her restlessness.

“Surely your friends won’t mind if you do a spot of reading,” Ardbert muttered, “burn off some of that energy.”

She found she agreed So Zahra retraced the well-worn steps to the Cabinet of Curiosities.

She had ever felt drawn to libraries and storehouses of knowledge, always hungry for the fresh crack of a bookspine, the soft whisper of pages being turned over. They reminded her of quiet evenings spent in the rooms of the Waking Sands, fragrant mint lassi and Urianger’s gentle cadence as he instructed her on the finer points of aetherial manipulation and the ongoings of Vesper Bay’s Syndicate.

The Cabinet of Curiosities was a quiet place. But it was a comfortable silence, one brought together by shared scholarship and genuine desire to learn. Sometimes muffled giggles or conversations broke the reverie, before falling back into that gentle stillness.

She looked first for Moren, but he was no where to be found, no doubt as tightly buried in the stacks as any other resident bibliophile. He always had the best stories, knew where very book was in the Cabinet as if it were his own quarters.

Only one other person knew as well as he did—the person who had no doubt donated most of these books.

Zahra plucked a book from the shelves—one detailing the intricacies of Il Mheg’s fae, with special attention paid to their traditions. She took the heavy tome to her usual spot—a quiet table for two, tucked close to a window and deep in the stacks. She arranged herself carefully in her seat, before cracking open the book and setting to reading.

She tried to focus. Truly. Attempted to turn her attentions solely to the words on the page, to conjure images and stories in her mind where words failed.

But all she could think of was how _sensual_ the Crystal Exarch would sound reading such words aloud. Sometimes he joined her in her visits to the Cabinet, and if she was lucky, he would read a few choice passages aloud to her. Her whole body was a livewire attuned to the smooth, subtle rise and fall of his voice, the way his tongue wrapped around the vowels and consonants…

That voice haunted the very depths of her, particularly in lonely, dark nights, tossing in turning in her too-warm bedsheets.

It was almost as if…

She jerked up from her tome to see the Crystal Exarch speaking in those low, soft tones to one of the Cabinet’s patrons. She gasped, heart racing at the prospect of seeing him so soon.

And then, he looked directly at her, and Zahra clutched at the desk for an onze of support.

She could see his full lips part in surprise at her. “Zahra,” he greeted, settling a stack of books on the reading table. Zahra craned her neck to look at their spines—a variety of books, some she recognized as Voeburtite literature and others as dense, scholarly texts on magicks. “Alphinaud told me you were taking your rest in your quarters.”

“I was,” she said softly, “but…” Zahra crossed her stockinged legs, flattened her palms on the table, “I got bored,” she admitted.

“You’re never idle for long,” he noted. He folded himself into the chair across from her smoothly, automatically picking up one of the denser tomes and sliding his hands over it. Zahra felt her eyes drawn to the way his fingers moved over the smooth leather, slow and meditative. “Minfilia— _Ryne,_ ” he corrected himself, “told me you are… feeling the ill-effects of the Light. So Y’shtola suspects.”

Zahra frowned, her hands meeting to knot together. “Yes,” she admitted, “but…” she tossed her head back to look him full in the face, wishing so desperately she could pull back his hood, for she was more and more certain of exactly what—exactly _who_ —she would find there. “They shouldn’t worry—I can handle it! I _have_ to handle it,” she repeated, a little quieter.

The Exarch’s hands stilled over the book. “Zahra…” His voice was low, tender, fractured.

 _Ah,_ more than ever, he reminded her so much of that young historian. All mismatched eyes, boundless enthusiasm, a bibliophile and a friend.

She wondered if he slumbered still in the Tower with the bracelet she’d gifted him.

“What books do you have?” she directed instead, gesturing to the tome in his hands.

The Exarch lets loose a soft, gentle chuckle. “Of course you would be so curious,” he teased gently.

She fixed him with a wide grin, and he she could see the beginnings of a flush on his pale cheeks before he ducked his head down to the book.

He was always so _quick_ to turn away from her.

“This is a chronicle of Voeburt royalty,” the Exarch told her, opening it to a page with a complex illustration—a meandering, wandering family tree. He spun the book towards her, gesturing with his crystal finger at the names. “Various Drahn lines of royalty—all extinct now, although any of the Drahn in the Crystarium have as much a chance of being royalty as another.

“I saw an Echo,” Zahra found herself saying, “of Branden—one of the Warriors of Darkness.”

“Ah, the Galdjent?”

Zahra nodded. “He was sworn to a Voeburtite princess. And he eventually…” She looked down, remembering how _visceral_ the Echo had felt, “he struck her down,” she murmured.

The Exarch’s Spoken hand hovered over the page; she watched the tendons in his change shift beneath his skin, a muscle twitch, before settling back down onto the book.

“I see,” he sighed. “It seems the tale of the first Warriors of Darkness is one fraught with strife.”

“But we’ll bring them peace,” she told him, “I know we will. Ardbert will be able to rest easy.”

“I have every confidence you will do whatever it is you set your mind to,” he says warmly, a sincere smile on his full lips. “Actually, there was a book I wanted you to see—if you will follow me.”

“I would,” she smiled. They abandoned their still-open books at the Exarch led them further into the stacks. The sun was beginning to set, the streaks of sunbeams turning russet through the dozens of windows. She watched as the Exarch reached up, trailing his hand over several spines, absent-mindedly drawing the dark length of her hair over her other shoulder.

He turned to her with a smile. “Aha, I appear to have—were you hurt?” His smile turned into a frown, leaning close to her.

Zahra touched her hand to the spot—she had forgotten herself what was there.

“Ah,” she blushed. “ _That._ Granson—“

“—The dark knight?” It came out in a dark growl, and Zahra felt herself shudder. “The Hume from Wright?”

Zahra shifted, pulling her ponytail over the mark again. “Of the Mournful Blade, yes—“

“I—“ The Exarch took a slow, steadying breath. She watched his fists clench and unclench, and she wondered if the crystal would fracture under the pressure of his ire. She leaned further back into the books, feeling the hard spines beneath her back. “I apologize,” he muttered, not sounding sorry at all.

“And what exactly are you apologizing for?” Zahra persisted, leaning forward.

She could tell he wanted to leave. Saw it in every ilm of his body, the same way his shoulders tightened, a cornered fox ready to lash out. Soft lips pressed into hardened line.

The same expression he wore every time he left the Cabinet of Curiosities, always leaving her behind.

 _No,_ Zahra determined to herself, _not this time._

“I apologize for my lack of courtesy,” The Exarch grated, “and for my indiscretion. I—“

And as she saw him pull away from her, Zahra impulsively reached out, grabbing the front of his robes in her hand. He startled at her touch.

“Why were you angry?” she demanded.

He spoke above her, to the volumes of knowledge behind her. “I wouldn’t burden you with my concerns,” he muttered.

“I’m _asking_ to be burdened,” she snapped.

He moved fast, faster than she could track. His crystal hand slammed into the bookshelf behind her with a thunderous slam, so forceful several books tumbled from the shelves.

“O Warrior mine,” he breathed, “I would not burden you unjustly, whether you request it or not.” And his full lips curve into a twisted smirk. “You will simply have to burn with curiosity.”

“To hells with that,” Zahra said bitterly, “your lies tire me, Exarch. Either tell me or let us quit this matter entirely.” She jutted her chin, defiant, _daring_ him to rise to her challenge.

And she knew he would see that bruised, swollen bite on her neck.

“Tell me,” the Exarch murmured, and he lifted his hand—the Spoken one, and Zahra found herself mesmerized by the way the straps flex over his forearm, tight over the strong, corded muscle there, and she gasped when his knuckles ghosted across the flush of her cheek, unbearably gentle. “Why are you not with him now, if you have so much idle time to burn?”

Her breathing was more difficult to catch with each moment, her entire mind crowded with his presence. “Granson?”

He nodded, capturing a raven lock between his fingers, brushing it out of her face.

Gods above, how had he gone from so furious to so _tender_ in an instant? She felt dizzy trying to keep up with him, and yet, she struggled on, desperate to unwind the convoluted knot he had rendered between them.

“You still haven’t answered _my_ question,” Zahra countered.

And his hand curved beneath her jaw, tipping her head up to his. The painfully familiar slope of his nose, those full lips parted. Ah, but she _knew_ it was him.

And yet, he lied, again and again.

“If we were not who we are,” the Exarch whispered, “titles, fealties, and reservations cast aside—nothing would please me more, than to be the one who monopolizes your time.” He leaned forward, his breath scorching against the shell of her ear, and she shivered as he spoke, lips brushing against her, “The one who shares your bed.” His hand spreads open against her cheek, his thumb brushing her parted bottom lip. “The one who leaves such marks on you—and _more._ ”

“You speak such tender words,” Zahra whispered, heart hammering in her breast, “yet are unwilling to prove the veracity of them.”

“And how would you have me prove them true?” The Exarch asked softly.

Zahra canted her head, a wry smile on her lips. “You know what I want,” she murmured.

The dust motes hung in temporal suspension in the late evening air, shades of scarlet and gold spangling the air as he tilted her head up to his.

The bookshelf bit into her shoulder as she slid her mouth open against his, surrendering wholly to him as he leaned down to capture her mouth in slow, decisive movements. She could taste bitter sweetened tea, the fragrance of ancient tomes of knowledge overwhelming her. One of her hands fists in his robes, tight and unyielding, the other reaching up to drape over his shoulder, drawing him closer.

He bit her lip, sharp and painful, drawing a surprised noise from her, and then both his hands slide down to her haunches, gripping so tightly she feared her stocking would rip—in one smooth movement he pinned her against the bookshelf, her legs hooking around his waist as naturally as breathing. Her mouth was open and panting against his, and he crammed her against the wall, nearly folding her in half in his quest to get closer, closer, _closer_. She moves to slide off his hood—playful, harmless—and a growl leaves his throat, rumbling against her, and he’s pushing even harder against her, she wonders if he’s hard for this, exactly _how_ hard he is—

A book fluttering to the floor startled the silence and tore them apart. In an instant her feet slammed to he floor and he pulled himself away to the opposite bookshelf, panting with the effort, lips lovestung and scarlet.

She had truly gotten under his skin, hadn’t she?

“Exarch,” she found herself calling before he could leave her again, her voice so distant to her it didn’t sound as if it belonged to her. “Meet me tonight.” She dropped her voice low. “In the Pendants. _Please.”_

She expected him to say no. To deny her yet again, to continue to delay that which was so obvious.

“Pretty please?” she whispered weakly.

The Exarch collected himself, standing straighter, taking a deep breath.

“Of course, Zahra,” he murmured, inclining his head. “If that is your desire.”

Her mouth fell open in surprise. Of all the things…

Before she could thank him, he turned, striding towards the exit.

While he may be fleeing her again—she knew, she _knew_ she finally had him.

* * *

Zahra had fretted into the small hours of the night over the Exarch’s visit. She had spent entirely too long preparing herself in the lavatories, fussing over the part of her hair, adjusting the fuchsia chrysanthemum in her hair—first it was too high, then too low, then she discarded it entirely before then fetching it to re-pin it, a starburst blaze against her dark hair.

She had shooed Ardbert away, for _both_ their sakes—but when the bells came and went, and her midnight visitor still did not deign to arrive, she found herself regretting it, sorely wishing for his company. Her mind ran snarls around itself, anxious and jumpy at every small movement.

She almost wished he _wouldn’t_ show up, she was so agitated.

_Almost._

She finally surrendered to the blissful call of sleep, nursing a mug of tea and half-hearted hopes as she stared at the door to her apartment, willing it to open, willing that man to materialize before her.

Was he watching her, in the scrying glass of his? Did he enjoy the torment he put her through, the fretful anxiety in her?

She fell asleep thinking about the mirror, and dreamed fitfully about glowing scarlet eyes watching her in the dark.

She had always been a heavy sleeper—it was a boon and a bane both, but her body would not be denied its rest. She woke slowly, the barrier between sleep and waking a thick, impenetrable thing. Touch came first; the gentle glissade of smooth fingers trailing down her arm, drawing the weight of her hair over her shoulder. Sound then: a low, smooth tenor, humming a melody familiar and puzzling.

Zahra’s eyes flew open, and she rolled over to meet the amused Crystal Exarch.

“Exarch,” she breathed. A relieved smile spread across her face. “You could have knocked, you know,” she teased.

He tousled the dark fringe of her hair, a crooked smile playing across his full lips. “I did, actually,” he told her. “Quite loudly. You are a sound sleeper.”

She huffed. “I like to get my rest. And what of you? I heard a rumor that you rarely sleep, if ever at all.”

His crystal hand trails down her bare arm, icy and smooth, before settling over her hand. “Some rumors are true,” he conceded. “But—I apologize for my delay. There were… _matters_ I wanted to settle, before the night was over. But it is almost dawn, is it not?”

“Almost.” She watched, transfixed, as his the same hand draws back up her bare arm, to her shoulder, featherlight over her collarbones, to her neck—

Pausing at the lovebite.

It was fading quickly, and she could have erased it with a simple healing spell. She had even entertained doing so.

But she wanted to see what he would do.

Something rash flashes across his features, the same righteous crackle of anger from the afternoon.

“Something caught your eye?” she asked archly. Weedling.

The Exarch sighed, drawing away from her. Her heart sank watching him retreat.

“Nothing worth remarking on.”

Zahra felt herself ignite, and she sat up. “If you wish only to trade in lies, you would have been better suited staying in that damned Tower,” she sniped.

His mouth parts with surprise, then settles into a firm line.

“You wish for honesty?” He asked, his voice low-burning embers.

She felt her heart quicken in her breast. “Always.”

He caught both her hands in his, quick as levin, his thumbs—mismatched, warm and cool, rubbing slow, soothing circles over her knuckles and tendons.

The tenderness was entirely at odds with his voice, ragged and frayed with passion.

“I have felt a fire, in me, since you arrived.” The Exarch rasped. “Something I did not think I was capable of—something I found myself _fearing._ But I would not distract myself with such banal matters—but I could no longer ignore that which I felt, that which threatened to burn me alive with the furor of it. And that mark—that _godsdamned_ mark on you—confirmed that which I suspected.”

“Which was?” Zahra breathed.

He looks up from her hands—if she could see his eyes, she knew they would have burned brighter than any of Ifrit’s nails, infernal and wild.

“I was consumed with _envy,”_ the Exarch grated, “envious of any who would spend their time with you. Who could be graced with your presence. Downright _malicious_ towards someone who would dare mark you so blatantly.”

She licked her lips, her breathing shallow and ragged.

“You never attempted to gainsay otherwise.”

“How could I?” There was a bone-deep pain in his voice now, exquisite in its anguish. “How could I possibly believe you could reciprocate that which tears me apart?”

“I must confess,” reckless bravery drives Zahra on as she spoke, “your words and actions do not match. You _say_ you are burdened with jealousy, but yet, you hesitate. You run away when I confront you. In a manner some might call…” she fixed him with a satisfied grin as she throws down the word like a gauntlet, “… _cowardly._ ”

He grits his teeth, and she found herself wondering what they’d feel like against her skin. Would bite her slow and hard, or sharp and quick?

And then he was moving—leaning his weight forward, sending her back into the sleep tossed sheets with a thump. He pinions her wrists above her head, his knees coming hard on her thighs. Bookish though he was, he was possessed of a strength she had sorely underestimated.

A strength that excited the deepest parts of her.

“Zahra,” he breathes. A warning. A command.

He drew the line between the battlefield, and Zahra stepped over it.

“What?” Her voice was low and sardonic. “Are you going to run away again?”

He crushed his lips against hers before the final syllable died on her lips.

When he kissed her in the Cabinet of Curiosities, there was a surrender in it. Relief and submission, bleeding over into the golden rays of afternoon sunlight streaking over them.

Now, the Exarch kissed her with slow-burning rage unfettered.

And _gods,_ she could not have been more eager.

He was unpracticed, hasty—all teeth and tongue, he kissed her like a conqueror. More Allagan emperor than a simple man. His grip on her wrists grew bruising when she swiped her tongue over his bottom lip, and she can feel him shudder when she arched up, unbound breasts brushing against his robes.

He released her hands, trailing down her arms and over her shoulders, palming each of her breasts, surprisingly gentle despite his rush. Her nipples pebbled into his palms, a wild shiver arcing down her spine as he drifts further down, over her ribs, sliding down her waist.

Settling on the flare of her hips, thumbs poised just above her smalls.

She let out a squeak of surprise when he slides down her body, coming to his knees off the edge of the mattress.

“I’m going to make you forget,” the Exarch vowed, slipping down her smalls in slow, gentle movements, she arcing her hips to ease them, “about anyone else—save for me. At least in this briefest of moments, before the dawn.” She felt the warm ghost of his voice just over bare sex. “ _Zahra.”_

And then his mouth is on _her_ , and he was as good as his word. She truly does forget.

There was nothing save for the wild leap of her heartbeat, his hands, and that damnable, infernal _mouth._ She lost herself in the pure bliss of it, the flat of his tongue dragging slow, sensual circles over her pearl—she had never been so wet, slick and effortless against him, her hips bucking up into his touch.

And when she thought she could take no more of his torment, the man started _talking._

It started with a warm chuckle against her, the vibration lighting all the way up her spine. “You’re so eager,” he murmured, a dark, low rumble, punctuated by long, sloppy kisses against her core, “and _oh,_ you taste like _heaven…_ ” He hums as he nuzzles further into her. Her voice was strangled in her ears, hitching cries and plaintive moans. She was boneless as he settled her thighs on his shoulders, the gilded detailing of his cowl digging into her muscle as he worked her.

The discomfort was hardly a distraction from the torment he was working upon her.

Hands splayed across her bare abdomen, digging in, greedy, _desperate._ He was a starving man and she felt like a king’s banquet under him, losing herself inexorably in the Exarch’s ardor.

Gods above, why had she ever let it take so long?

She lets out a squeak of indignation when he comes off her, startling into an undignified yelp when he manhandles her, rolling her over onto her front.

Hitching up her haunches, bending down once more to lap at her swollen cunt.

He moves to the swell of her cheek, biting down hard on the pliant flesh. She arches back into him, her entire body rendered a livewire by him. He laves the bruised skin with his tongue, hand drifting over her slit to massage slow, mesmerizing circles into her.

This time, the Exarch moves slowly. Draws his hands up the slope of her back, lingering over scars with tenderness.

“Exarch,” Zahra pleaded, tilting her hips back. “Please…”

“Give me your honesty,” he purred, low and charming. “What do you desire?”

“You,” she mewled, “I want you to…”

His hand hovered over her nape, gentle yet demanding. “ _Whose_ do you want to be, Zahra?”

Her heart flutters, a wild morphos in her ribcage.

“Yours,” she whispers. _“Yours.”_

“Stay put,” he told her, and she could hear the susurrus of robes being shed, her heat racing as she imagined what she must look like. Was it Raha after all? Was his scarlet hair long and unbound, did the whorls of crystal extend over his body?

He draped himself over her body, and she couldn’t stifle her moan at the luxurious feel of his bare, warm skin against her—his hot length pressing into her core, brushing against her slick, the smooth, hard plane of his chest against her back…

“I’m going to make you mine,” he promised, breath hot and heavy in her ear, nipping at her lobe and driving a cry from her as he slipped the blunted tip of him into her. She arched back against him, desperate for more, desperate for _him._

“Please,” she pleaded him, “I want you, _please…”_

He gave a slow, languid thrust, one hand gripping her hip so hard he shook, the other entwining over her hand, the leather bands flexing tight over his knuckles. Another pump—she felt so inexorably _full_ with him, and she tilted her hips back, drawing a frayed hiss out of him as she took him to the hilt.

“You feel…” he gasped against her, body shuddering as he stayed perfectly still.

A wicked impulse took her; the same mischief which drove her to expose her bite, to force him to answer her.

Zahra tilted her hips forward, drawing him nearly out, then drew their bodies flush again, taking him as deep as she could.

It was all it took, to undo the very last vestige of the Exarch’s so carefully curated self-control.

He took her in a ragged, punishing pace, sharp snaps of his hips as he yanked down her sleeping tunic, littering her back and shoulders with numerous bites. He would bite down so hard she wondered if he would break the skin, then kiss them into perfectly swollen bruises, and she could do nothing but endure his torment, weathering out the harsh way he took her.

“ _Mine,”_ he snarled; she could feel his body tightening, every muscle coiling. And then his crystal hand slipped to her front, sliding down her heaving stomach til he found her slit, and his fingers matched the pace of his hips; it was too much, it wasn’t enough— she could scarcely tell where he began and she ended, and then—

His mouth, hot and panting, found her neck.

And as soon as she felt herself cresting her climax, he bit down.

She broke apart in his arms: “ _Exarch, please—!”_ Her voice fracturing as it overtook her, muscles spasming around his cock, the sensation setting off another wave of rapture in her, leaving her limp and pliant in his arms as he took her.

His teeth dug into her skin brutally, and she could feel his pace stutter as he too surrendered. Her name was a melody on his tongue— “Zahra, _Zahra—_ “ and she could do aught but mewl against him, feeling wonderfully, _deliciously_ full with his hot spend.

She collapsed bonelessly into the sheets as he panted above her, the both of them struggling to collect themselves.

Zahra wanted to turn around, to catch a glimpse of the man she _knew_ lay beneath the cowl before he left—but sleep, inexorable and irrefutable, pulled her back down into the comforting depths, the toils of these past few days and what the Exarch had wrought upon her pulling her into unconsciousness. She was aware of soft, morphos-soft kisses against her back and shoulders; the comforting noise of clothes being pulled on, and was asleep before he closed the door.

She woke late in the morning, blinking blearily up at at the sunshine blazing into the apartments. It was so unlike her to sleep in so late, but perhaps it had been sorely needed. She scoured her sheets, finding herself looking for something, _anything_ that proved he had truly been with her that night, besides the ache in her bones.

But…

She went over to the glamour mirror, and took a wild breath at what she saw.

Dark, angry, purpling, a perfect crescent; the Exarch’s mark on her neck, entirely replacing the one before. There were a dozen more like it, on her thighs, her shoulders, one at the dip of her waist, interspaced between her battle scars.

She felt debauched, ruined, and—her heart fluttered to think of it, thrilled in the darkest of ways—

—she felt completely, entirely _his._

**Author's Note:**

> ahh this was my first time writing with a specific warrior of light, and i hope it was effective! zahra belongs entirely to [asamino](https://twitter.com/asamino_), thank you so much for letting me borrow her!


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